The Distant Summer
The rain did not fall; it hung in the air, a gray curtain that smelled of wet stone and old blood. You walked through the streets of Oakhaven, the cobblestones slick under your boots, the city breathing around you like a sick animal. It was the time of year when the mist rolled in from the river, thick as wool, and the gas lamps sputtered in the wind. You were not a man who belonged here, not...
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